


The Devil Made Her Do It

by colorofmymind



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Gen, Light Angst, Mild Gore, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 09:44:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7796983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colorofmymind/pseuds/colorofmymind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mazikeen stands, a knife clenched in each fist, and kneels behind the Devil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil Made Her Do It

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been bugging me ever since episode seven came out, but I never got around to writing it down until now. This is my interpretation on how Lucifer lost his wings initially as hinted at by episodes four and seven in the season. I am so excited to share my work with the fandom for the first time, and this is also my first attempt at writing for these characters at all so I was glad to explore them as well. I hope you enjoy!

The knives feel heavier in her hands than they usually do. The atmosphere of this world is offsetting in all fairness; Mazikeen has heard the stories from the mortal inmates in Hell, but those tales of their lost “home” had typically been extracted from strangled screams and delightfully pathetic moans as she taught them no such earthly pleasures would be found in her abode. Sharpening her weapons of choice, she thinks better of the reason why the metal does not sit lightly in her hands.

He sits a distance away, back turned in her direction, wings already limply resting on the sand.

“Mazikeen.” For the first time in known memory, her name is not given as a question or a command but as an acknowledgment of her presence. “Mazikeen, are you ready?”

His words are a soft rumble, yet they carry well in the deafening quiet of the rolling and receding tide. As the foamy waters curl in by her side, she turns her feet inwards, digging and trapping the dry sand within the empty spaces of her toes. So much about this world is foreign, but her master does not seem to hold the same reservations as she. He does not recoil from the waters like her, the demon; he allows the small waves to continually pass underneath his wings with seemingly no agitation.

Mazikeen stands, a knife clenched in each fist, and kneels behind the Devil.

Tucking one of the knives in her belt, she grasps his left wing in her left hand, her right hand poised with the remaining knife just below his shoulder blade, just at the place where his wing joins his back. As she presses the blade to the attachment point, his body shifts stiffly and the end of his left wing flutters spasmodically. Mazikeen draws the weapon away from him, keeping in mind that was his reaction to the blunt end of the blade.

She considers her words carefully before voicing them aloud.

“Are you certain about going through with this?”

It is the first time she has ever dared question his authority, and a sickening feeling hits her gut as she does so. Something else new, something different to assess and deal with than anything she’s known before. Within seconds, however, he has turned to face her, the dull brown of his eyes brightens and crimson orbs are now boring into her soul, ablaze with fury and righteous indignation, the fires of Hell and anger and _home_ reflected right in her own. 

“ _What makes you think **you** can possibly undermine **my** decisions?_ ” The Devil practically bellows, now having fully taken off his mortal disguise.

She had feared before she might not ever see him in his natural form again before they go back to Hell; the scarlet skin as though it had been impressed upon by charcoal, the burning eyes that sent his victims spiraling, and the voice that undoubtedly matched that of the allegedly almighty Creator. His eyes glow yellow around the edges, a shade Mazikeen knows is a sign of impatience and is far more dangerous than the scarlet his irises normally don.

“Nothing,” she answers confidently. “Nothing anymore.”

There is hesitance in the Devil’s features. All too soon, an immortal bearing the face of a stranger faces her, and the rage that once lighted his eyes flickers and dies, and the dull brown returns.

He gives her a slight nod and a short reply of: “Good.” The booming voice has left and in its place an overwhelmingly refined British accent coats the words.

“Mazikeen,” he says but follows it with a scoff. “Bloody hell, that isn’t going to work well here. Let’s try something more…fitting for this era of humanity. They do like their ‘nicknames’ here, don’t they? How to shorten your name into two or less syllables indeed, Mazikeen.”

Pale, red lips part repetitively, repeat her name silently like a bemused mantra. It is not until a “Maz—” escapes that a satisfactory look settles on his face and his lips purse together in a thin upwards line which she recognizes as an attempt at a smile.

“That’s it. No longer shall you be known as Mazikeen,” he declares somewhat sardonically with a finger raised in the air. “But as _Maze_.” At this point, the smile has grown to his trademark, devious grin.

“I don’t like it.”

“Oh, I’m certain you will, when enough time has passed,” he casually dismisses. “Anyhow, we still have more important business to attend to here. And before you ask again, _Maze_ , I am fully prepared for this and whatever consequences it might bring. In fact, that’s just what I’m hoping for.” Her master divulges while staring daggers at the musky, cloud-ridden night sky, almost as a wish that the Observer of all of time would hesitate as He watched and knew during and before He watched the action His son would undertake.

Mazikeen tightens her grip on the knife that was being held loosely in her hand as the Devil turns around again, back turned to her once more. Taking the exact same position as she had before, she raises the weapon slightly before digging it into its intended target: a few inches above the attachment point. Unapologetically cutting into the creamy, white skin and smiling at the blood that starts to run over it, revealing his true colors. She continues to keep a small perimeter of skin around the wings’ fixture to his back, so as to not damage the prized instrument of flight.

The first wing does not seem to fall to the ground in real time to her. It, with the chunk of flesh attached, makes its descent in the most inglorious of ways, crashing onto the sand with a disheartening thud that sends Mazikeen out of reality.

She stares too long at the fallen wing of the first fallen angel before noticing her master is shuddering where he sits, half his back red from the gaping, gushing wound below his shoulder blade. The knife is in the sand and she is at his back, trying vainly to undo the deed.

“Maze,” he whispers, voice only audible with the wind’s aid. “The other one. Now.”

Extremely begrudgingly, she removes her bloodied hands from the wound, reaching into her belt for the other blade. Before its tip even approaches his skin it drips with his blood, and his shaking is so controlled as though his body takes heed of the calm before she brings the second wave of the storm.

With the second wing, Mazikeen cuts in anger this time, yelling as it circuits around by her hand, by his command; and he, in a momentary show of vulnerability and reckless abandon, screams in time with her.

The right wing falls to the observation of no one. Her hands are at the gaping holes in her master’s back, frenziedly hoping to fill the void she alone created.

“Maze,” he breathes harshly, “Get two feathers from a wing, quickly.”

Withdrawing only one hand, she finds the right wing, hastily plucking a couple from it. The feathers unlike her hand remain unimbued by the blood, maintaining their pure white coloration.

“Place one at each of the wounds,” he grunts.

She reminds him desperately, “Nothing, not even you, can heal from a weapon forged in Hell; you knew that!”

Even in the midst of his probably overwhelming pain, he manages a low chuckle. “Oh Maze, you don’t honestly think that a demon’s knife could match an ancient relic from Father, do you? Now do what I told you to.”

Obeying his order, Mazikeen gingerly places a feather over each bleeding chasm. Within an instant, a blinding light engulfs her vision, and she turns her head slightly away. Curiosity bids her closer as the light dims and the feathers lay overtop his skin like stitches; the ends of the feathers and the fibers of his skin slowly connect and bind together, appearing to dissolve within each other. Before she knows it, laid before her own eyes are two sets of elaborate scar tissue.

A shaky breath leaves the Devil’s lips, growing into a loud and sinister laugh as he stumbles to his feet. Mazikeen remains on the ground, bloodied and sand-crusted knives at her feet and flanked at both sides by the mightiest wings bore in creation.

“Oh, yes, I think I quite like this,” he remarks, glancing at his own reflection in the passing waters.

“Master,” she begins.

“I don’t think that name is going to work either, Maze,” he admonishes. “I have reinvented myself here tonight. Any name denoting my previous title in Hell is banned until further notice.”

“You’re the Devil,” she states. “And these are your wings. What are we going to do about them?”

The question is met with a puzzled expression at best.

“The first thing to do is to get them off this beach,” he reasons. “No reason to cause Father an unnecessary crisis with his favorite play-things.”

Without turning to face her completely, he stoops down, lifting the one wing and carrying it off under his arm, leaving her sitting in the sand. Following suit, she takes up the other wing under her arm and shoves her blades back into her belt, shadowing the other immortal a few paces behind.

When Mazikeen discovers a feather belonging to one of the wings on one of her dirtied knives later, she says nothing, not knowing the reason behind her omission. Silence, however, she finds is a comforting friend in this strange world.


End file.
